


A Sucker's Game

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Arthur & Eames have recently started dating. At some point Arthur confesses shyly & awkwardly & insecurely that he ahem umm kinda likes to get peed on. A dirty PWP would be loved and cherished – but my unborn child will go to someone who would in addition to the smut, write about the thoughts/reactions that the confession brings up in Eames, why he decides to try it with Arthur and how/why it in the end turns out to turn him as well the bloody hell on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sucker's Game

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I let my haters be my motivators.  
> Notes: Set post-Inception by a eighteen months or so. WARNING for WATERSPORTS.

Eames wakes up to delightfully, torturously slow suction on his cock and soft, hungry moans.  
  
He enjoys the ride for a few minutes—really, who would’ve thought that a man of seemingly little imagination could give such amazing, thorough blowjobs?—running his hands through sleep-spiky, gel-free hair.  
  
“Loathe though I am to interrupt the proceedings, petal, this  _is_ , unfortunately, a piss hard-on,” he finally exhales, slitting his eyes just a bit to see a blurred, dark head bobbing on and off his turgid cock. “Gonna have to take care off the first half of that benighted state before I can let you take care of the latter.”  
  
Arthur moans, long and protracted, but doesn’t stop sucking Eames. If anything, he starts sucking  _harder_.  
  
Any harder and the stimulation’s going to make Eames explode in a way that neither of them will appreciate.  
  
He tugs on Arthur’s hair—something Arthur  _hates_ , and which never fails to get his attention. This morning is no exception.  
  
“God _damn_ it, Eames—“ Arthur snaps, sitting back on his heels, still between Eames’s legs  
  
“Arthur, dearest,” Eames says, levering himself up onto his elbows and opening his eyes fully. In the dim, but unforgiving dawn-light, Arthur looks tired and irritable, with dark circles around his eyes and a tight moue to his normally delectable mouth. It makes him look both older and grimmer than usual. “Joy-of-my-heart, my bladder is quite full. If I don’t take care of it, you’re going to wind up with a mouthful of piss. And then some,” Eames says bluntly, clamping two fingers on the base of his cock and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him as he stands, raking measuringly down his back, along the lines of his tattoos, to his arse, where it lingers . . . then down his legs. And back, again.  
  
Then that measuring feeling is gone and Arthur’s muttering to himself. And Eames can’t be hearing what he  _thinks_  he’s hearing, because there’s waking up in alternate universes, and there’s waking up in that fucked up ‘verse in which Bizarro-Superman isn’t a complete stooge.  
  
“I beg your pardon, darling,” he says, bladder forgotten as he turns to face Arthur, who’s staring angry holes into the duvet, his long, graceful hands twisted in its folds.  
  
“Nothing,” he says, all clipped tones and pursed lips. “Just hurry up and take your piss, already.”  
  
Eames shakes his head. “No, that’s not what you said, petal.”  
  
Arthur looks up at him with narrowed, unreadable eyes, his pulse visible and racing in the slender hollow of his throat. “Then what  _did_  I say, Mr. Know-it-all?”  
  
Eames licks his lips and wonders if he should repeat what he  _thinks_  he heard. After all, if he’s wrong, then he’ll be the very picture of embarrassment. Well, not  _really_  since there’s rather little that can embarrass James Rupert Eames. But he’ll certainly feel a bit foolish.  
  
But if he’s right—and he’s almost certain that he is—then that bizarre-‘verse theory is looking more and more like reality. Though in light of some of their recent early morning . . . delights, is it really so bizarre that Arthur should want . . . that?  
  
“Well, Arthur-sweetling, it  _sounded_  like you muttered: ‘I could take care of both, if you’d let me.’”  
  
Arthur’s smile is hard and flat. “Get your ears checked, Eames. And your head, while you’re at it.” With that, he’s bouncing out of bed and gathering up his clothes, his erection bobbing rather comically as he hobbles around the room.  
  
And now, Eames is more than  _almost_  certain he’d heard correctly.  
  
The question becomes, what does he do next? Force the issue by talking at Arthur till he cracks, and admits it? Hah. Arthur’s military training would immediately come into play, and like Eames, he  _has_  been trained to resist hostile questioning to and beyond the point of torture.  
  
And at any rate, getting Arthur to open up about anything at all is a sucker’s game.  
  
So Eames, watching Arthur grouse over the popped buttons in his favorite shirt, comes to a decision. The only way to get inside Arthur’s . . . head . . . is to do what he’d done to get inside Arthur’s trousers.  
  
He crosses the room while Arthur’s bending over to claim his socks or some-damned-thing from under the bed, and pulls him close by his narrow hips. Arthur, of course, being Arthur, freezes. But he doesn’t resist when Eames maneuvers him into what Arthur almost fondly refers to as the “oops-I-dropped-the-soap” position, which basically means that he’s bent completely in half while Eames’s cock is nestled between his cheeks.  
  
“Don’t you have to go drain the lizard?” Arthur demands, all exasperation and disdain. Eames simply holds him tighter with one hand, while using the other to line the head of his cock up with Arthur’s tight, still-slick little hole. He can hear the hitch in Arthur’s breathing as he straightens up and finally makes a half-hearted attempt to pull free of Eames’s grip.  
  
But Eames isn’t having any of it. In fact, he doesn’t really know  _what_  he’s having, but he’s no stranger to following his gut when it counts, and right now his gut is telling him not to let this go. To play this sucker’s game out wherever it takes them.  
  
When Arthur stops squirming as if he wants to get away—and he doesn’t. He must not, since if he wanted to, he could probably have put Eames in traction at any time—Eames lets the punishing-tight hand on Arthur’s hip slide around to the no-longer-so-comical erection the Pointman is sporting. Arthur moans again as Eames strokes him slowly.  
  
“Spread your legs, darling,” he whispers in Arthur’s ear, kissing the lobe softly. Arthur shivers and obeys helplessly, shuffling his heels apart on the deep pile carpet. Eames chuckles.  
  
For Arthur can withstand many things—each of them more terrible than the last—but the one weakness he seems to have, his Achilles heel, as it were, is  _touch_. The need for it, the submission to it, the yearning for more. The  _promise_  of  _more_.  
  
(He’s also rather partial to Eames’s voice, and will do any number of lovely, dirty things so long as Eames  _tells_  him to.)  
  
Eames rubs the head of his prick against Arthur’s tempting, fluttering arsehole. “Want my cock?”  
  
A soft, defeated sigh. “You know I do.”  
  
“Want my come?”  
  
“Yes. . . .” said with such a tremble, Eames wonders if Arthur knows what’s coming next.  
  
Wonders if, as with their relationship to date, he can break through Arthur’s defenses with little more than offering him everything he wants.  
  
“Hmm . . . but there’s something you want more, isn’t there?”  
  
No answer.  
  
Eames nuzzles Arthur’s nape. “Answer me, my dove . . .  _isn’t there_?”  
  
Still, no answer, but Arthur’s trembling has spread to the rest of him.  
  
“I’ll give you anything you want, petal. Anything you need.  _Anything I have to give_. But you have to  _tell_  me. Tell me what you need.”  
  
“Eames, just  _fuck me_!” Arthur chokes out, trying to push back on Eames’s cock. But Eames isn’t having any of that, either. He holds Arthur steady, and holds himself in check. His baser self wants to simply have Arthur, and have done, never mind what dirty little things Arthur won’t let himself have until Eames forces him to accept them. They can hash out Arthur’s probable fetish—one of many, it turns out—some other time.  
  
But Eames’s gut . . . it’s warning him that if he lets this go now, he’ll never get Arthur even close to admitting it again. And it would behoove him, he senses, to break Arthur down regarding this particular desire.  
  
“ _Fuck me,_ ” Arthur commands again, his voice raw and hoarse, his cock in Eames’s hand standing at attention, hot and hard. Harder than it had been just a minute ago.  
  
It’s time, Eames’s gut further tells him, to  _go for it_. To make one of the biggest wagers he’s likely ever to make, regarding his relationship with Arthur.  
  
So he takes a deep, calming breath, and smiles on the back of Arthur’s neck. “Don’t think I will. At least, not just yet. I think I’ll have a piss, first.”  
  
Arthur shudders, his breathing gone absolutely ragged. “Eames, what—“ he begins, his body finally,  _finally_  giving him away in truly mutinous fashion as he tries once more to push back onto Eames’s cock at the word  _piss_.  
  
Eames feels a sudden, startling spike of desire that rockets through his body, centering initially and finally about the base of his spine and his cock. And as if it had never gone anywhere, the pressure on his bladder returns, seemingly increased ten-fold.  
  
“Ah,  _fuck_ ,” he exhales, imagining the exquisite release that’ll come when he can finally let go. He pushes the head of his prick forward, into Arthur just a little ways, just a little tease, that has them both making high keening sounds.  
  
“Feel that, lovely?” Eames murmurs unsteadily. “My body doesn’t know what it wants to do first: come, or piss. . . .”  
  
“Eames—“ oh, yes, Arthur’s on the edge. Eames’s hand on his cock speeds up, twisting and swiping the head, his fingers sticky with Arthur’s pre-come. For a quick few seconds, Eames stops stroking, and brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking the taste of Arthur off with an obscene popping noise.  
  
“Love the taste of you, Arthur-pet.” Then he’s stroking Arthur off again, relishing the musky-salty-bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. “Gonna fill you up with my prick, darling. Till you can taste me on the back of your tongue. Gonna make you come so hard, you’ll think you’re _dying_  . . . but you have to tell me which you want, which you  _need_  . . . come or piss?”  
  
Another shudder so deep, it rocks them both back on their heels.  
  
“I want—“ a dry, sand-papery sound that has to be Arthur licking his lips. “I want you to p-piss on me.” Another pause. “I want you to piss  _i-in_  me.”  
  
Eames lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding then takes a moment to gather himself. When he speaks, his own voice is trembling and husky. “All you ever had to do was say so, my love.”  
  
He drives his cock into Arthur’s willing, wanting body, changing up his angle several times before he finds Arthur’s prostate. He presses against it till Arthur’s making huffy little whines that bear no resemblance to actual words.  
  
“Get ready, love,” Eames grits out, knowing full well Arthur probably can’t even hear him, this late in the game. Then he lets his body relax just a little. . . .  
  
The first dribbles don’t come until he’s thrusted in and pulled out of Arthur several more times. Eames groans at the feeling, however slight, of release, and leans back to watch as the thin stream runs out of Arthur, to trickle down his leg and be soaked into the carpet.  
  
Another trickle runs down Arthur’s leg, and the sight is so unexpectedly powerful that Eames is certain that, despite the fact that he  _has_  to piss, he is, in fact, going to come first. He grabs Arthur’s hips, pumps into him hard, grunting and swearing and egging himself on till he feels something in him give, and something come rushing out of him that’s definitely  _not_  come.  
  
“Oh,  _Eames_ , oh  _God_!” Arthur yells, his voice still ragged, verging on completely torn. “Yes,  _yes_ —give it to me, please . . . don’t stop. . . !”  
  
As if Eames could. His bladder is in complete control, now, emptying itself into the tight confines of Arthur’s arse. The trickle has become a flood that runs down Arthur’s thighs to patter loudly on the carpet.  
  
After an eternity of pissing, Eames registers the tightening clench of Arthur’s muscles around him—  
  
Arthur’s coming.  _Hard_. It soon becomes obvious that the only thing holding him up is Eames’s iffy grasp on his sweaty hips.  
  
Somewhat more clear-headed than he was just a minute ago, Eames realizes how untenable their situation is becoming. So, holding his stream, but without breaking the connection of their bodies, he lets them both sink gently to their knees, in the wet patch of carpet.  
  
Arthur is panting, twitching, and possibly sobbing, if the heave of his shoulders is any indication.  
  
 _Fuck_ , Eames thinks anxiously, sphincter clenching tight as he watches Arthur shake and gasp.  
  
Could it be that for the first time, his gut has steered him wrong?  
  
But then Arthur’s rolling onto his side and, through a face covered in tears and snot, is  _beaming_ up at Eames gratefully. Worshipfully, even.  
  
Sphincter instantly loosening once more, Eames returns the smile, and finishes having his piss. He aims so that the first of the stream hits Arthur’s pale, smooth chest, running through splatters of come. Then he aims for Arthur’s still half-hard cock—which Arthur’s furiously stroking, as if he needs to come again. . . .  
  
Finally, Eames’s empty, but for a few renegade drops.  
  
They look at each other, Eames still holding his cock, Arthur still stroking his, laying a-sprawl in a perfectly unconscious rent-boy pose. If Eames’d expected shyness of Arthur in this, the immediate afterglow, he’d expected wrong. For Arthur’s gaze is hungry and bold as he leans forward and wraps his lips around the head of Eames’s prick, catching those last few drops on his tongue and closing his eyes with obvious relish.  
  
“Oh,  _darling_ —“ Eames breathes, then his eyes squinch shut on this glorious sight as he comes and comes.  
  


*

  
  
When he regains use of his shaking legs, Eames stands and laboriously swings Arthur up into his arms.  
  
“James, your back,” Arthur says sternly, and Eames grunts.  
  
“Believe me, this is nothing like last time, darling,” Eames replies, referring to the last time he’d tried swinging Arthur up as if he weighed nothing. He’d put his back out for most of a day, during which Arthur had played the dutiful nursemaid surprisingly well.  
  
“It had better not be.” Arthur’s grip around Eames’s neck tightens as Eames kisses him tenderly and walks them into the bathroom, past the unneeded loo, and to the huge bathtub. He sits Arthur gently on the edge and starts the hot water running.  
  
Then, standing arms akimbo, he regards his lover who, after sneaking a few glances at him, decides to study Eames’s feet.  
  
“So, um, yeah,” Arthur begins, and Eames reaches out to tilt his face back up, so they’re gaze to gaze.  
  
“That was bloody  _brilliant_ , Arthur,” Eames whispers, kneeling in front of Arthur to kiss him, tasting himself in a way he never has before. After a few hesitant moments, Arthur kisses him back shyly, then much less shyly.  
  
“How long have you been wanting that, petal?” Eames breathes on his lips. “Honestly?”  
  
“Honestly?” Arthur snorts gently. “Years.”  
  
Eames leans back, surprised. “Really?”  
  
Arthur blushes. “Really.”  
  
“Why wait so long to come out with it? Especially since we’ve been seeing each other for a bit.” Eames kisses the tip of Arthur's nose, then his forehead. “You must know there’s precious little I won’t try with you. Do I not eat my come out of your arse on a near daily basis?”  
  
The blush deepens. “That’s different, Eames.”  
  
“Is it? How so?” Eames asks doubtfully. Arthur huffs.  
  
“I dunno  _how_. It just  _is_.” And that’s the end of that, Arthur’s sudden scowl says. Eames rolls his eyes and sighs.  
  
“Well, we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but we’re bloody well going to  _do_  it again.  _Soon_.”  
  
Arthur blinks, then smiles like Eames just made the sun come up. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”  
  
Eames’s own smile turns wicked. “And you know what  _I’d_  like?”  
  
“What?” Arthur asks warily then yelps when Eames pulls him up off the edge of the tub just long enough to turn him around and drape him over it.  
  
“Spread, darling.”  
  
“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur practically hiccups, doing as he’s told. Eames applies his tongue to where the applying is and always has been  _good_.  
  
And true to form, Arthur opens like a flower to the sun under his ministrations.  
  
“But if you drown me in this damn tub, Eames, I swear, it’s your  _ass_ ,” he threatens weakly.  
  
Eames rolls his eyes again, smiles, and licks Arthur into happy incoherence.


End file.
